


not enough aspirin in the world

by inkstainedwretch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedwretch/pseuds/inkstainedwretch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Tall Tales makeup sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not enough aspirin in the world

They hold off until Bobby’s gone home because that’s just awkward. Not to mention that they need all the allies they can get, and in their field, giving someone the slightest reason to look sideways at you is the last thing you want to do.

They sort of keep holding off late into the night, when Sam’s looking for a new job on his computer like he’s afraid it’ll vanish into thin air (again) if he stops typing. Dean stumbles into the room five minutes after the pizza gets there, his shirt covered in black and brown smears. Changing the oil in the Impala is therapeutic for Dean any given day, but Sam’s pretty sure he also refilled the transmission fluid and polished the wheel covers, if the six different chemicals he can smell on him are any indication.

He puts his hand on top of the pizza boxes before Dean can get to them.

“Dude, you’ll poison yourself if you don’t at least wash your hands.”

Dean gives him a _look_ , but he throws his shirt off and heads to the bathroom anyway. Sam’s pretty sure his eyes would’ve fallen right out of his sockets if he’d rolled them any harder.

—

Dean emerges from the shower a while later, and an enormous cloud of steam billows from the bathroom. Sam doesn’t look up from his laptop screen.

“…you used all the hot water, didn’t you?”

“Eh, you can shower in the morning.” Dean drags his pizza box out from where it’s been kept nice and warm between Sam’s box and the sheets. “Besides, they’ve got one of those five-speed massager showerheads that are perfect for getting the knots out of your back. We never get a hotel with one of those, anymore.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. He really isn’t paying attention to the articles and reports on his screen, at this point. Dean turns the TV on and lounges against the headboard, folding his pizza in half and getting a good two-thirds of the slice into his mouth before he bites down. They sort of sit there, ignoring everything but each other, for a good while.

In the end, Sam’s the one who caves. That’s usually how it works, with this kind of silence.

“…hey.”

Dean looks at him a little too quickly, which actually comes as a weird sort of relief, because it means he wasn’t paying attention to the TV, either.

“Did you mean that? When you said I was ‘Mr. Perfect’, or whatever?”

Dean makes that noise he always makes whenever the first thing he wants to say is a little too honest for his pride to allow.

“Man, we were both all jacked up with that trickster guy’s crap. Neither of us actually meant what we said.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“Yes, we did.”

There’s a little bit of a pause after that, and then Dean huffs and bites off half of his pizza crust with a little more force than is necessary.

“Yeah, maybe you did.”

Sam shuts the lid of his laptop.

“Yeah, I did. Because yeah, you piss me off sometimes, with your purple nurples and your hair-trigger temper, but you know what?”

“What?” Sam wasn’t actually expecting a response, which is probably the only reason Dean gave him one.

“I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you.” Sam shuts his laptop and sets it to one side. “Because then you wouldn’t be you.”

Dean sort of looks at nothing for a second, like he does when they’re driving and he’s sure Dean would like him to think he’s looking at the road. And then Dean chuckles, and he exhales.

“Yeah, well.” He stands up and gets them each a beer from the minifridge. “You’re not exactly a saint, either.”

“What, really?” Sam takes a swig of his beer. “Thought you said I was Mr. Perfect?”

“Yeah, but you expect everything else to be as perfect as you.” Dean’s already gone through three slices of pizza. “Last I heard, saints were patient.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not as perfect as you think.” He throws his empty pizza box across the room. It almost lands in the trash can. “Although you’d think I’d _have_ to be a saint to put up with you.”

“Oh yeah, like you don’t give me a heart attack every time you run off somewhere without telling me.” Dean’s tone is joking, but his face says otherwise.

“…I only run off on purpose when you’re too busy protecting me to let me do anything on my own.” And then it gets all quiet and uncomfortable, so he gestures to the TV. “Although, seriously, I can only take so much of your stories. Don’t even pretend it’s just background noise. You turn it to the same channel wherever we go.”

Dean sputters, but he’s grinning, and it’s bright as a neon cityscape smeared over the windshield, sweeter than that fucking _amazing_ peach cobbler they had at that one diner in West Virginia.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

And all is right with the world, again.

—

They stay up way later than they probably should, since checkout is at 11 in the morning, but whatever. He changes the TV to Wheel of Fortune and they keep score of who gets the puzzle first. Sam gets up and actually puts the pizza boxes into the trash, because apparently if he doesn’t, ants will get into everything they own. Dean sort of slides down the headboard of his bed and shuts his lamp off, and after a while, Sam does the same.

Sam’s on his side facing him, and the moon’s full enough that he can see his face, half-painted with shadows. And yeah, maybe Dean’s had a bad habit of watching Sam until he falls asleep for the past few…weeks. He can’t shake the fear that he’ll get possessed again, or some demon will spring up and drag him out in the middle of the night, or whatever fresh hell decides to pay them a visit this time will come after him, and he won’t be able to wake up fast enough.

Sam looks like he’s sort of afraid, himself. Like he doesn’t want to be quite so separate. That works for him.

“C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam climbs out from under the covers, and Dean slides back to make room for him. Friggin sasquatch. He’s probably gonna wake up with no covers. Sam gets a hand around his neck and kisses him, and he tastes like beer and doritos, but he also tastes like Sam, and that’s way more than he could ask for right now. He _needs_ Sam. He needs every damn reminder he can get that Sam is still here, and he’s still his OCD, bitchy little brother. (More than that, he needs a reminder of what he’s _not_.)

He also needs to breathe, though, so he might be a little lightheaded when Sam finally breaks off. He feels Sam tug at his waistband trying to get his pajama pants off, and he laughs softly, murmuring a quick “somebody’s eager” before he gets his mouth down to Sam’s neck and sucks. He feels Sam’s nails scratch up his back, uneven and mostly blunt, but it’s so damn familiar that it tears a gasp from his throat.

“Fuck, _Sammy_.” He gets Sam’s jeans undone and rolls them over so Sam’s completely on top of him, towering over him with those sweet, sincere eyes looking right into his own and his hair falling around his face. He drags the waistband of Sam’s boxers down and kisses him again, hot and heavy and a little desperate. He’s pretty sure Sam takes the hint, because he pulls his shirt off and throws it somewhere, and in record time he’s got them both naked and his teeth digging hard into his shoulder. That’s gonna leave a hell of a mark, but he needs that. He needs something to see in the mirror tomorrow morning and remember Sam’s still here. He needs to remember this moment, convince himself that there’s nothing in the world that can undo what they have right now.

Their hips grind together, sticky skin and fever-hot friction, and he shifts a little and takes both of their cocks in his hand. Sam’s better at this, because being eleven feet tall gives you bigger hands, but he makes the best fucking noises when Dean does it. Like that high-pitched whine right in his ear, the one Dean etches into his memory for the next night he spends wondering where his little brother went. (He knows there’s going to be another one, no matter what he tries to do about it. That’s just how Sam is.)

Sam rocks his hips into his hand, takes his lower lip into his mouth and bites, clings to him like he’s the last thing he has in the world, and Dean comes with a shout against his skin. He moves his hand faster and forces his eyes open the second he’s able, just in time to see Sam’s face twist up. He hears Sam start gasping before he falls on top of him and whispers “ _Jesus_ , Dean”, and then his voice shorts out and his body starts shuddering above him.

They catch their breath in silence, boneless and exhausted. Sam laughs against Dean’s collarbone.

“Now we’re both gonna have to take a shower in the morning.”


End file.
